


the two-man cell block tango

by gonta



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, POV Third Person, Spoilers, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9587657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonta/pseuds/gonta
Summary: [NDRV3 SPOILERS]Getting the chance to pick the brains of a bona fide serial killer was not a common opportunity, and Shinguuji’s bandaged fingers were itching at the chance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I. Am. A dishonorable dumpster man. Jesus christ this is prime hateship

The tea was getting cold. 

Resting spindly fingers on his chin, Korekiyo Shinguuji closed his eyes. He supposed that in the back of his mind, he knew that this would be the case. Of course it had to be this way. That he would manage to get his hands on an anthropological (and psychological) opportunity of a lifetime, only to have it not even show up at the mutually agreed time. 

He gazed warily at the tea in its ecru-colored paper cups, as if willing them to tip over just so that he would have something to do. The slow ticking of the wall clock was a metronome for a song that had not yet started. He figured that Akamatsu would know something about that. 

As the tea leaves began to settle at the bottom of the cups, the  _ ding _ of a bell sounded from the direction of the door, indicating that someone had entered the cafeteria. Though Shinguuji’s eyes were closed, the familiar rattle of a chain took the tension out of his shoulders. So, he hadn’t skipped out.

Ryouma Hoshi, his jacket unusually scuffed-looking, had entered the scene. With rays of distrust radiating from him, he climbed up onto the chair facing the anthropologist (and onto the strategically-placed pile of books that he had set up in advance, so that they would be at eye-level). He coldly regarded him with heavy-lidded, sable eyes, as if daring him to make a move. If there was one word Shinguuji hated, it was “ogle”. But that’s what Hoshi did - he ogled him.

 

He had approached the tennis player - the murderer - with the proposition of an interview a day prior. After all, getting the chance to pick the brains of a bona fide serial killer was not a common opportunity, and Shinguuji’s bandaged fingers were itching at the chance. 

Hoshi had frequently expressed that he was of the opinion that no one at Saishuu Gakuen should get close to him, but Shinguuji’s persistence was dogged. Hoshi had pertinent information for his studies. And he would get it, no matter the cost.

He had initially been rather reluctant to accept his offer, but Hoshi had eventually nodded and muttered something incomprehensible that Shinguuji took as compliance. But the expression on his face now made it clear that he would rather be anywhere but here. 

With a vague, unfocused scowl, he glanced down at the tea and spoke. “I prefer coffee.” 

Shinguuji tented his hands, mentally steeling himself for what would likely turn out to be a rather difficult encounter. “It was mere courtesy. If you’d like something else, try seeking out Toujou.”

He sniggered. “Toujou doesn’t deserve to deal with me.”

“And I do?”

“You’re the one who asked for this, aren’t you? You’ve taken me on as your responsibility, for the time. I can’t deter you from that. It was your decision.” 

He flicked his stick of candy up and down between his teeth - salmiakki, Shinguuji noted. Salmiakki was derived from the Latin  _ sal ammoniacus _ , which in turn referred to the temple of Ammon where ancient Greeks discovered ammonium chloride. There was a certain strange irony in the fact that he, who defied the morals of mankind, was so often seen with something named for a missionary. 

“...Let us begin, then,” he murmured, neither affirming nor denying Hoshi’s statement. The other’s expression did not change, and he carried the same bemused airs as always. Trying to ignore it, Shinguuji dug out a well-worn, leather-bound notebook and a pen for taking notes. He figured that he would have to deeply analyze what little information he would get out of him, as it would be anything but easy to understand. “So, Hoshi-san.”

“Hmm?”

“I suppose that we should start with the obvious. Be frank. Why did you do it?”

Hoshi fingered the edge of his hat, deep in thought. His expression was nigh near unreadable, but he appeared unconcerned. He mulled over the question for a while, before finally replying. “Hmph. I’m afraid I can’t disclose that, Shinguuji. But don’t you have anything - say, a cause, or a  _ person _ \- that you would go to drastic measures for?” Shinguuji felt his grip on the pen tighten, but he said nothing in response. “That’s my answer.”

“...Kukuku, interesting,” the anthropologist scribbled a few notes in the book, holding it so that Hoshi could not see. His handwriting was exceptionally neat, and he prided himself on it. So far, the interview was not going in his favor - why did Hoshi refuse to give him a precise answer? Perhaps it was just his nature to be frustratingly vague. 

Hoshi’s gaze grew ever more clouded. 

Briefly, Shinguuji closed the book and capped the pen, resting his hands loosely on the table. “Next question, then,” he said, trying to pinpoint the center of Hoshi’s stygian eyes as they bored into him. “...Your methodology - is there any particular reason for it? You state that the Super High School Level Tennis Player is dead, and yet-”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied. “What better way to cast off your own talent than by shattering someone’s frontal lobe with it?” Shinguuji scribbled  _ frontal lobe _ in the book. “But that seems like a strange question to ask in an anthropological interview. Is there something on your mind?”

“I’m meant to be the one asking the questions, Hoshi-san,” Shinguuji mumbled. He set the notebook down on his lap and took the cup of tea in his hands, looking down at Hoshi in a signal for him to do the same. 

Hoshi stared at him.

And in one fluid motion, his hand shot out and sent his cup flying off the table.

 

Shinguuji blinked once, then twice. This had not been the expected outcome. What was Hoshi planning? His expression had darkened, but he still held a poker face. 

“No,  _ Korekiyo _ .” The name sounded heavy on his tongue, and he spit it out like he were belching cigarette smoke. “Let  _ me _ ask  _ you _ something. Why girls?”

“...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Who would ever listen to the ramblings of a killer?” He took out the salmiakki and twirled it between two elfin fingers, nails calloused and grubby with dirt. “Which is why I wonder why I find myself and others listening to you.”

Shinguuji had no reply, and simply gripped the cup. The tea leaves swirled aimlessly on the bottom like dust in the wind. 

“You have no proof of your claim,” he eventually retorted. “Are you resorting to false truths, like Ouma-san? That’s very lowly of you.”

A strangled laugh climbed its way out of Hoshi’s throat, distorted and warped by the bass of his voice and by his contempt. Shaking his head with a smirk, he shoved his hand in his pants pocket and pulled out a brown bottle with an English label. “Lowly? You’re one to talk.”

Shinguuji raised an eyebrow. “Alcohol?”

Hoshi’s signature smirk twisted into a leer. “Pentothal. Truth serum - they used it on me back in the interrogation room. Don’t act so innocent, you should know where I found this.”

“Very well, but your claim about the murders is unfounded. You are a very interesting human being, but I will not stand for these insinuations-”

“I’m not done.” Hoshi pulled out two photographs, absentmindedly dropping them on the table. They clearly showed the inside of Shinguuji’s talent lab - specifically, an oft-unnoticed corner. Several blown-up images of his female classmates had been tacked to the wall, connected by pushpins and red thread. Harukawa and Iruma’s faces had been scribbled out with black marker, but the rest of the photographs were spattered with notes.

Shinguuji’s eyes widened. “How did you-”

“You’re not the only one who can resort to underhanded tactics. I crawled through a vent.”

“I can truly see why you call yourself dishonorable, Hoshi-san.” 

“Haah, as if you’re not. This interview is over, Korekiyo.” He pushed the chair away from the table and hopped off. “Trying to murder a girl using my tactics - that’s not only dishonorable, it’s just plain uncreative. And if you try any of that  _ bullshit _ , I’ll make sure that everyone knows that you’re as bad as I am. I may be a killer, but I still believe in retribution. I’ll see you around.”

Shaking with a quiet rage, Shinguuji rubbed his temples. “You disgust me,” he hissed, watching as Hoshi made his way to the door. 

The rattling of Hoshi’s ankle chain stopped for a moment, and he smiled furtively. “Likewise.”

 

The door slammed shut, causing ripples in the surface of Shinguuji’s tea. He glared at the photographs, at the bottle of Pentothal, at the tea that was drying in stains on the floor. The cafeteria filled with an empty silence, the sunlight pouring in from its windows providing a belying contrast to the storminess inside. 

He shut his eyes. 

His sister would have especially despised Ryouma Hoshi. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always cherished and appreciated!


End file.
